RUSSIA

The Russian Empire, as you see,

Is governed by an Autocrat,

A sort of human target he

For anarchists to practise at;

And much relieved most people are

Not to be lodging with the Czar.

The Russian lets his whiskers grow,

Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and

Imbibes more‘ vodki’ than‘ il faut’;

A habit which ( I understand )

Enables him with ease to tell

His name, which nobody could spell.

The climate here is cold, with snow,

And you go driving in a sleigh,

With bells and all the rest, you know,

Just like a Henry Irving play;

While, all around you, glare the eyes

Of secret officers and spies!

The Russian prisons have no drains,

No windows or such things as that;

You have no playthings there but chains,

And no companion but a rat;

When once behind the dungeon door,

Your friends do n't see you any more.

I further could enlarge,‘ tis true,

But fear my trembling pen confines;

I have no wish to travel to

Siberia and work the mines.

( In Russia you must write with care,

Or the police will take you there. )

If you hold morbid views about

A monarch's premature decease,

You only need a — Hi! Look out!

Here comes an agent of police!

( In future my address will be

‘ Siberia, Cell .’ )